Chapter 80
Logan ambled through the custody suite with two wax-paper cups of coffee – raising one in salute to Sergeant Downie with his webbed-feet and cave-fish tan on the way past – heading for the cells.
Someone down the end was belting out showtunes, while someone else screamed at them to shut up, over and over and over and over . . .
Halfway down the line of heavy blue doors, Logan knocked, then lowered the hatch till the safety-screen revealed the interior of Charles MacGarioch’s cell and:
‘WARNING ~ ↑ HATCH UNSAFE, CLOSE FULLY ↑’
MacGarioch lay on his thin blue plastic mattress, gazing at the advert for Crimestoppers painted on the ceiling.
He sat up.
So, Logan slid the hatch all the way down to ‘FULLY OPEN’ and balanced one of his wax-paper cups on the little sill. Coffee: milk and three sugars, because apparently that’s how MacGarioch liked it. Lukewarm, because Logan wasn’t about to have a scalding beverage hurled in his face.
‘It’s OK, Charlie: you don’t have to talk to me. Not without a lawyer. Brought you a coffee.’
MacGarioch unfolded himself from the mattress and slouched to the door. Tall enough that he was only visible from his neck to his chin through the hatch. He took the wax-paper cup and gave it a suspicious sniff.
‘I thought you should know that Spencer Findlater died this morning. We notified Ralph Hay, and he’s telling the rest of the group, but you’re stuck in here, so . . .’
It took two goes to get the choked words out: ‘Spence is dead?’
‘It wasn’t the car crash; they’d transferred him out of Intensive Care.
Someone killed him. Took a pillow and just .
. . smothered him.’ Logan softened his voice, because even racist dickbags had feelings.
‘If it helps, Spencer was on a suitcase-full of sedatives and painkillers, so they don’t think he suffered.
Probably didn’t even know it was happening. ’
‘Shite . . .’ There was a shaky breath, then MacGarioch thunked his head against the inside of the cell door. ‘He was my mate. Known him since we were six.’
‘Sorry.’ Logan took a sip of canteen coffee – better than the stuff from the machine, but still not great.
And at least his one was hot. ‘Don’t know if this makes things better or worse, but he’s the guy who tipped us off about you burning the Balmain House Hotel.
Told us where to find the petrol can with your fingerprints on it and everything. ’
Thunk.
‘I think he knew he’d be safe ratting you out, because you’re far too loyal to ever break the Orphan Code. Even for someone who’s screwing you over, as long as they’re a “mate”.’
Thunk.
‘And this way you’d be out of the picture, so he could move in on your girlfriend. Keira said he was one of the “Thirsty Boys”, always trying to get in her pants.’
This time the thunk was a little harder and came with a growl.
‘Something to think about, anyway.’ Logan went to close the hatch, but stopped halfway. Opened it again. ‘There’s just one thing bugging me: in the car, after we arrested you at the circus – you said you only did it, because you “needed the money”. What money?’
Song finished, the bloke in the other cell started in on a medley from Oklahoma.
MacGarioch cleared his throat – voice a little strangled, as if he was swallowing tears. ‘Thanks . . . for the coffee.’ Then turned and carried his half-cold drink back to his uncomfortable bed.
Logan clacked the hatch shut.
Some people just didn’t want to help themselves . . .
The open-plan office was eerily silent for five past four on a Friday. The only inhabitants: Logan, two support staff, and a PC over by the printer – swearing at the machine between bouts of bowel-rattling coughs.
Logan sat back in his seat and frowned at the computer screen. Deleted his concluding sentences and tried again.
The events at Gorseburn Croft hadn’t exactly been straightforward, and the top brass liked everything laid out nice and clearly with as few complications, ‘howevers’ and ‘meanwhiles’ as possible. Which made the report on rescuing Natasha Agapova this morning a massive pain in the hoop.
Tufty hop-skipped across the room, with a big smile on his pointy wee face and a manila folder tucked under his arm.
Throwing in a salute as he clicked to attention in front of Logan’s desk.
‘World’s Greatest Sidekick, reporting for duty, sah!
’ Then plonked his folder in the in-tray. ‘I does has a finished.’
Yet another thing to read.
The wee loon made a big ta-daaaa gesture, then shrugged.
‘Turns out our abductist – in inverted commas, “Davis” – did sue the Scottish Daily Post for every penny it does has. Only the judge telled him to go poop in his hat, and awarded the paper costs and stuff.’ A sniff. ‘No wonder he was on a revenge.’
Logan cricked his neck to one side, making it pop and crackle like bubble-wrap. ‘What a sodding day.’
‘That’s Friday the thirteenth for you.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Though not really, as it’s just a case of confirmation bias.
Cos people expect bad things to happen: they look out for the bad stuff and do go, “Oooh, this bad thingie must be because it’s Friday the thirteenth!
” But if the same bad something happened on a Tuesday the fourth, they’d be all like, “pooping heck . . .” and just get on with it. ’
Logan had another bash at concluding his report and sent it off. Had a massive stretch, then an equally massive slump. ‘Could sleep for a month.’
‘Ah, yes, but we did solve the case and rescue Natasha Agapova.’ Hoppity-skippity. ‘That’s successalicious, right?’
True.
Kind of.
If she survives . . .
He dumped the relevant forms in his out-tray, then reached for the next folder. Which had ‘OPERATION FIREDRAKE “FOOD VAN TURF WAR”’ printed across it in wonky Sharpie letters. ‘Told Charles MacGarioch about his good mate Spence screwing him over. Still wouldn’t talk.’
‘And now the newspapers will hail us as heroes, and tell everyone how groovy and clever we are, and buy us a extra-nice hat what does say “Brave Clever Person!” on it. In sequins. With an exclamation mark.’
‘Wouldn’t even tell me how burning a migrant hotel was meant to be a cash earner. I mean, how do you make money doing that?’
‘Hmmm . . .?’ Tufty raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t even make money running one, never mind burning it. Look at poor old Mr Murray.’
‘Who?’
‘Owns the hotel. I did see inside his house when I put him to bed, and he is totally skintsville. Looks like he did has to sell all his furniture and stuff.’
Time for more coffee, because if the paperwork for Operation ‘Food Van Turf War’ was even half as boring as the stuff on Operation ‘Camper Vans Stolen To Order’, he was going to need all the caffeine he could get.
Gathering up all his empty wax-paper coffee cups, Logan dumped them in the bin. Stood. And checked the clock – 16:07. ‘Right: soon as the little hand hits five, we’re out of here. Got Morning Prayers for this stupid protest at seven tomorrow, and it’s going to be a complete . . .’
Hang on a minute.
He peered at the wee loon. ‘This Murray guy’s broke?’
‘I think he kinda drunk the family fortune after his wife and kid died.’
Well, well, well . . .
‘So, a man who’s financially screwed, owns a hotel that suddenly catches fire?’ Logan grabbed his peaked cap. ‘How much do you want to bet there’s a dirty-big insurance claim in the offing?’ Marching for the door. ‘Grab a pool car, we’re going to pay “poor old Mr Murray” a house call.’
Logan gave the door three loud, hard knocks, then stepped back.
The dirty granite walls of Mr Murray’s house had soaked up so much heat over the last week-and-a-bit that they blared it out like a radiator. Making things even worse as the punishing sun blistered down.
Sweat prickled across Logan’s brow, an itch spreading across his shoulders as it clawed its way down to his bones.
Whatever idiot decided to make the Police Scotland uniform all-sodding-black needed a good kick in the unmentionables.
This must be how bread felt when Tara made toast . . .
Tufty took his cap off and used it to waft himself. But then he was in the full stabproof-and-high-vis getup, so probably on the verge of melting.
Logan tried again: knock, knock, knock . . . ‘Don’t suppose he’s lying in there choking on his own vomit, do you?’
‘Totally yes possibles. We should totes do a wellness check. Wink, wink.’
‘Stop saying “wink, wink”, you twit. The “wink, wink” is implied.’ Looking up at the door lintel. ‘Can you see a key?’
‘Oh, I can do better than that.’ Tufty whirled his hands around in circles, making wiggly finger gestures at the door; then a deep breath and, ‘OPEN-SAYS-TUFTEEEEEE!’ Like something off Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
The wee loon turned the handle and pushed.
Then stepped inside. ‘Mr Murray? Are you OK?’
What?
Logan followed him into a manky monochrome hallway straight out of a Tim Burton film. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Wasn’t locked.’ A grin. ‘See, a door is either locked or it isn’t, one or the other, so I had a fifty-fifty chance it wouldn’t be. Worth a punt to look cooltastic, wasn’t it?’
Unbelievable.
‘You’re an idiot.’ Logan cupped his hands either side of his mouth. ‘MR MURRAY?’
Tufty copied him. ‘THIS IS YOUR FOUR O’CLOCK WELLNESS CHECK! ARE YOU OK?’ Then stuck his head into the living room. ‘MR MUUUUUU-RRAY?’
Logan tried the door at the end of the hall, which opened on a dusty, gloomy kitchen slowly disappearing under a sea of empty bottles. But no Mr Murray.
Time to search the rest of the house.
Ten minutes, and two floors later, they found him at the very top of the house.
‘Mr Murray?’ Tufty tiptoed into what looked like a small child’s bedroom – still fully furnished and clean, unlike the rest of the place – complete with teddy bear and rocking horse. As if the kid was just late home from school. ‘Mr Murray, are you OK?’
He was lying on the floor, curled up on the only bit of carpet in the whole building, sobbing quietly, with his face pressed against the tail end of a Mr Man duvet cover.
So not OK.
And from the look of things, he probably never would be again.
Logan stepped over the threshold, blinking as a fug of second-hand booze enveloped him. Sharp and stale and miserable. ‘Come on, we’d better get you downstairs.’
Down in the horrible, bottle-filled kitchen, Logan propped Mr Murray up on a rickety kitchen chair, while Tufty went a-rummaging. Banging and clattering his way through the cupboards, looking for supplies to make coffee with.
‘Mr Murray?’ Logan gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze; all friends together. ‘Do you want to tell us about Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch?’
He smacked his lips, releasing the stench of too much cheap wine on an empty stomach.
‘I used have . . . used have dreeeeeeams, . . . know? Dreams.’ Waving a hand at the house that festered all around them.
‘Not any . . . not any more . . . . All that’s .
. . all that’s dead, now . . . . Dead, dead, dead. ’
‘Aha! Sarge: I does has a success.’ Tufty clunked a jar of instant down on the worktop. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Murray, we’ve got everything necessary for a good sobering-up cuppa! Except for milk. And sugar. And a clean mug. But other than that, we’re great.’
‘Mr Murray? Why don’t we start with how you met Charles MacGarioch and Spencer Findlater?’
The man screwed one eye closed, the other watery and bloodshot as he peered up at Logan. ‘S’not . . . didn’t . . .’ A shudder. ‘Wasn’t my . . . my fault.’ Wobbling on his chair as the kettle boiled.
‘You sure about that?’
‘No . . .’ His lips trembled, good eye shimmering as the tears welled up. ‘No one was . . . no one was meant . . . to get hurrrrrrt.’ Rubbing at his stomach as the half-word, half-belch dissipated. ‘See . . . header tank. Header tank!’
‘The leak.’ The one PC Kent mentioned – the burst pipes that forced the families at the front of the hotel to move to the back.
Mr Murray put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhhhh . . .! Was meant . . . meant to flood all . . . should’a .
. . all the bedrooms out . . . . But got the pipes .
. . mixed-up and . . . only front ones!’ He grabbed the nearest bottle, swirling it in front of his face, as if trying to get the contents in focus.
But it was empty, so he chucked it over his shoulder.
It bounced off the tatty wee fridge and smashed against the floor.
‘Only front flooded . . . . Wanted to . . . wanted to cancel fire . . . but forgot . . . to phone! . . . Forgot to phone.’ Grabbing another bottle – empty. ‘Too late.’ He threw both hands in the air. ‘Whoooooosh!’
Smash.
It took a bit of doing, but Logan kept his voice warm and friendly. ‘What made you think the insurance company would fall for it?’
‘Ahaaaaa . . . Cos . . .’ Mr Murray threw Tufty a shifty look, as if he might clype to the authorities.
‘Cos everyone knows . . . racist pricks . . . everywhere these days . . . . Far-right did it! . . . Burning things . . . . Thick as pigshit . . . . Nazi wankers.’ The finger came up to his lips again.
‘Shhhhh . . .! Nobody ever . . . will ever know!’
‘Yes they sodding well will: on your feet.’
So, it wasn’t racism after all.
It was good old-fashioned greed, coupled with incompetence.
Logan produced his handcuffs. ‘Craig Murray, I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 . . .’